Page 2

It was all aggressively wholesome.
As we rounded the corner, which was really more of a curve since I lived on a circular street, I noticed an elderly woman drinking what appeared to be lemonade as she watched someone struggling to haul a large bundle of branches toward the curb.
The brush stilled, finally reaching its destination, and the brush dragger straightened. I nearly tripped over Homer.
Standing there, shirtless, with sweat dripping down his chest and a smattering of crunched-up leaves and tree schmutz littering his sun-kissed skin, was the single most handsome man I had ever seen.
I stopped walking.
Homer, unaware that my entire nervous system had just crashed and was resisting a good reboot, tugged at the leash.
But I stood frozen, staring like a total creep.
The man—broad and tan, with a rugged, no-nonsense kind of hotness—reached down to the ground, retrieved an ax, then swung it at a nearby branch, splitting the stubborn wood like it owed him money. Sweat glistened on his skin, his arms thick and corded with muscle, his shoulders so strong I could probably do my taxes on them.
I forgot how to breathe.
The old woman sighed dramatically and waved her lemonade in the air. “Elliot, I told you, I can handle this myself!”
Elliot—because of course he had a strong, classic name like Elliot—just grunted in response, hefting another branch. “You’re eighty-six years old, Mrs. H. And last week, you threw out your back lifting a gallon of milk.”
Mrs. H scoffed. “It was two gallons.”
Elliot gave her an eye roll I thought might knock the poor woman over.
I almost melted into the pavement.
Then, before I could even attempt to formulate a normal human thought, disaster struck.
Homer’s leash slipped from my hand. In less than two seconds, my idiot dog barreled full-speed toward them, a joyful blur of wiry fur and enthusiasm.
“No! Homer, no!” I lunged, but it was too late.
With the kind of horrifying precision only an animal can achieve, Homer launched himself directly at Elliot’s leg and began humping with the force of a thousand suns—a thousand very horny suns determined to make as many little baby suns as was possible in a single humping.
Oh. My. God.
I died instantly. Right there, on the sidewalk. Just collapsed into the earth and let it swallow me whole. This was it. The end of my social life in this neighborhood before it even began. I might as well have died. It would’ve been a kinder, gentler existence than—
Mrs. H wheezed with laughter.
Elliot, to his credit, just looked down at Homer with mild confusion. “Uh . . . buddy? Does this mean we’ve bonded?”
Mrs. H howled, doubling over and spilling lemonade all over her lawn.
“Homer!” I sprinted forward, finally able to move again and mortified beyond words. Grabbing his collar and yanking him away from his unsuspecting victim, I half squealed, half cried deep within my soul where confidence went to die, “What the hell?! We talked about this!”
Elliot cocked an eyebrow. “You . . . talked to your dog about this? About humping my leg?”
“YES, BECAUSE IT’S A PROBLEM,” I blurted.
Kill me. Kill me now.
Homer, utterly unrepentant, wagged his tail and tried to go in for round two.
I hauled him back. “I am so, so sorry. He’s, uh . . . enthusiastic.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Elliot snorted. “Maybe you need to get a little girl dog for him.”